


The Interest Here

by disapparater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Cake, Coffee Shop Owner Harry Potter, Coffee Shops, Films, M/M, Radio Host Draco Malfoy, Secret Identity, Tea, Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:59:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/disapparater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has his own morning show on the wireless, which he loves; an ambitious assistant, whom he needs; and days in The Tea Shop, where he relaxes. He also has a new caller on the show, whom he finds bloody annoying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Interest Here

**Author's Note:**

> I had grand plans for this fic, but it turned out that life had hectic and overwhelming plans for me. So this is what I managed instead.  
> Thank you to my betas for being their always-excellent selves.  
> Written for hp_drizzle 2015.

Shuffling through his notes, Draco's eyes fall on the most bizarre words. 'Katabatic', 'mammatus', 'haboob'. It still amazes him that he understands the meaning of them all. It still amazes him that his silly little show is still on the air.

He has five reports ready to go, with time on the air for three, plus a handful of callers. Draco has yet to choose which to ditch, not knowing if they'll hold till tomorrow or whether he'll find better by then. A glance up at the station's clock tells him he has 40 seconds to make his mind up.

As the seconds disappear Draco decides to start with the Sharknado story—“story”—because it's frankly ridiculous and he wants to get it out of the way. It and the one or two Floo callers Oli will decide to put through who will swear blind they saw a shark barrel past their window last night.

Knowing he'll have to follow that with something more realistic, Draco finds his notes on Iridescent clouds. No one ever questions clouds. The last he'll have to pick when the time comes, because his time has run out and the red 'On Air' light turns on and Draco just stops thinking.

He pulls the radio transmitter a little closer, and goes to work.

“Good morning, you're listening to Common Ground, and as awful as you think the weather is in England, it's always worse somewhere else. I'm here to cheer you up by telling you all about it.”

\- - -

“Good show this morning, Boss.”

“Don't call me boss.” Draco doesn't even look up to glare at Oli; he knows it's futile. She's been immune to his entire repertoire of evil stares since the day he hired her—it's _why_ he hired her. “And it's always a great show.”

“True, but—” she pauses slightly before rushing on “—are you feeling okay?”

Now Draco raises his head to see Oli standing in the doorway, face a sooty grey and arms crossed. Draco leans back in his chair, crossing his own arms. “Of course I am, why?”

“You only swore twice, and didn't even lose your temper with that wizard who claimed he fended off a shark with a brolly.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Okay, but it wasn't as obvious as usual—you didn't even shout at him.”

“I kept my cool—I am capable of it, you know. It means the ratings should be above average. I may hate that my stunning and snarky personality puts listeners off, but I have to give them what they want.”

“I'm sure the ratings will be just as good as normal, but they'd be a whole load higher if you let out that snarky personality more. The listeners want a bit of drama; they like it when you shout.”

“Is that what you think?” Draco rolls his eyes in realisation. “Is that why you're _always_ putting the idiots on air? To tempt me into shouting at them?”

Oli just smiles at him before turning to leave. A light, “See you tomorrow, Boss,” drifts down the corridor in her wake.

“Don't call me boss,” Draco says, more to himself than usual.

\- - -

When he leaves the station half an hour later, Draco is parched. It's pissing it down in the true fashion of late British summer, but once he's stopped at Diagon Alley to collect his daily load of newspapers and magazines, he braves the wet and dashes down the street.

A few minutes later Draco turns down a narrow side street and ducks into The Tea Shop. Inside is warm and welcoming, with delicious smells filling the air. Draco takes a moment to stand and take it all in.

When he moves again it's to card a hand through his hair, which comes away damp. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the rack just by the door before depositing his papers and magazines on his usual table.

Making his way to the counter, Draco skim-reads the list of specials, and wonders what will go best with the cream cake he's been craving since breakfast.

“Morning, Draco,” says the grey-haired woman behind the till.

“Good morning, Jenny.”

“Delightful show today, the earlies seemed to enjoy it.”

Draco can't the help the side-eye that he slips in Jenny's direction. For as long as he's been coming here, and as long as Jenny's been turning the wireless to Common Ground for the shop's morning customers, she's never bothered to tell him how the show has been received. The fact that she has today, after the effort Draco's made, just confirms what he told Oli.

“Thanks.” Draco moves swiftly on. “Can I get seven refills of the Pepper Imp tea and a cream cake?”

“Course. Baked 'em fresh this morning—I've already had two myself.” She slips one onto a plate and slides it across the counter to Draco.

“Two sound delicious, but my waist line disagrees.”

Back at his table, Draco eats his cream cake while sipping slowly at his first cup of tea and flipping casually through his papers and magazines. When his mug is empty and there is nothing but crumbs left on his plate, Draco gets down to business. He fishes his parchment pad and quill out of his bag before waving his wand over the empty mug for his first refill to appear.

For a while, Draco barely looks up from the words in front of him while polishing off four more cups of tea. The Pepper Imp teas have him breathing fire and he's careful to do it away from his work. He scours the articles from across the world—wizarding and Muggle—looking for any news-worthy weather stories. It's long and arduous work, but ultimately fulfilling when his parchment pad gradually fills with stories and references as well as his own quips and commentary.

Eventually, the five cups of tea begin making themselves known in Draco's bladder and break his concentration. Finally putting down his quill, Draco stretches his arms over his head and looks out of the window. It's a little brighter outside, though still raining. He hopes it'll cheer up a little more before he leaves.

Letting his arms fall back to the table top, Draco shifts his gaze to the room. He's been working longer than he thought, because Jenny's no longer the one behind the counter. She usually gives him a smile and a wave when she leaves, but Draco must have been far too engrossed in his work to have seen it. This means he is more shocked than usual to see Harry Potter standing behind the cake display wiping down the counter and quickly looking away from Draco.

Shaking his head at Potter's usual haste to avoid getting caught, Draco gets up and heads to the toilet. From the corner of his eye Draco can see Potter watching as he walks across the room.

Draco doesn't understand why Potter continues to keep a close eye on him. Potter never approaches or talks to Draco—not like Draco has seen him do with other customers—yet he often catches Potter looking at him. It's been over six months since Draco first walked in the door, five and a half months since he's been coming in every weekday after the show. In that time he's pretty sure he's done nothing untoward that would warrant Potter's close inspection and tab-keeping. He's never been able to figure Potter out, and Draco doesn't know why he's still trying, but try he does.

Does Potter hate Draco coming to his shop? Does he wish Draco would leave? Does he think Draco will start trouble, even after all this time? Does he think Draco is keeping away other customers, despite how busy Draco has seen it, despite how many people come and go for tea, cakes and glimpses of the Saviour? Does Potter wonder what Draco is doing in his tea shop? Draco thinks that would be a fair enough thing to wonder about, because Draco wonders the same thing himself some days.

Only some days, because Draco does like a lot of things about the tea shop. He likes the laid back atmosphere, the large tables, the eclectic décor, the interesting tea selection, the always-friendly Jenny, and, of course the cakes. Those are all fine reasons in themselves, but Draco isn't so lacking in self-awareness that he can't admit that Potter is one of the reasons he keeps coming back. He's just not yet worked out _why_ Potter is a reason he keeps coming back.

On his way back to the table and his last two refills of tea, Potter's gaze snaps to Draco before just as hurriedly pulling away. And now he can't help but think maybe the enigma of Potter, rather than the man himself, is one of the reasons that Draco is drawn back here every day.

It's as rational a reason as any, and as Draco takes his seat and waves his wand for his penultimate cup of tea he gives a small shrug. As he finishes his work and polishes off the teas he doesn't think about Potter again, not until he's packing away his things and walking out the door with the feel of Potter's stare hot at his back.

\- - -

The next morning finds the rain lashing down harder than the day before while Draco sits at his desk deciding between a minor story on fire whirls or volcano rings—something warm to heat up the listeners on such a miserable day.

As usual, Draco fails to make up his mind before the light above his desk turns red and he's on the air. He shoves his notes to one side, as usual knowing exactly the story he's leading with.

“Good morning and welcome to Common Ground. Forget about the rain pounding on the windows, grab yourself a cup of tea and let me tell you how much worse it could be.

“First up is a story about a tornado in Oklahoma, USA, that destroyed a Muggle event at what's called a 'drive in cinema'. Several people were injured during the chaos, and people had to take shelter in an automobile workshop. This wasn't a ideal situation, and further injuries occurred due to dangerous equipment being thrown around in the high winds.

“The tornado was being followed by a group of storm chasers who were looking to improve research methods of the violent weather phenomenon that they almost affectionately term 'twisters'.

“Two of the researchers actually found themselves in the centre of one of the twisters as it ravaged a farm. They managed to stay alive by tethering themselves to plumbing that went deep into the ground.

“Despite the destruction that was caused, I hope they succeed with their research; it would have certainly given me more to talk about with regards to this particular story.”

Stories with a high violence content and an opportunity to get in a snide comment are Draco's favourite, despite the type of difficult Floo callers they attract.

“Oli, do we have a caller?”

“Yes we do, Boss,” replies Oli through her own portable transmitter. Draco can imagine her down the hall in the public bank of Floos, kneeling down to hold the transmitter out to a disembodied head.

“Er, hello,” says a new voice.

“Hello,” replies Draco. “You're through to Common Ground. What's you name, sir?”

“Har—Harold Po—Harold Porter.”

Draco bites back a laugh. Callers are sometimes nervous, but he's never had anyone stumble over their own name before. This guy would be so easy to rip apart, Draco can tell, but he quashes the urge. The listeners don't want a nasty host, and despite his aversion to them, Draco does actually want callers.

“Thanks for calling, Harold Porter. What have you got to tell us?”

“That the story about the twister is made up.”

Draco's nostrils flare involuntarily and he leans back away from the transmitter to take a swift, deep breath.

“I don't fabricate my news, Mr Porter.” Draco's impressed with how calm his voice sounds.

“No, I didn't—that's not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Harold?”

“Only that it's fictional—that it never happened because someone _else_ made it up.”

“So it's my sources that are fabricating elaborate weather tales?” This time there's a hard edge to Draco's voice, and though he mentally curses himself, he also knows no one has riled him up this way for a long time. Usually the callers are simply after a little attention for themselves, not insulting Draco or making accusations about the show's credibility.

“Oh, fudge, I'm not explaining this very well.”

If there is anything Draco hates more than people making presumptions and accusations, it's people playing the dipshit while they do it.

“Bloody hell, if you're not trying to insult me, my sources and my show, what the fuck _are_ you trying to do?”

“I just wanted to—to make you aware that it didn't really happen.” There's a pause, and Draco is about to jump in with a final scathing comment before cutting Harold off when he continues. “There's no need to be so nasty, Draco.”

Draco's not sure if it's the note of hurt in Harold's voice, or the fact that callers so rarely address him directly, but the words make Draco stop for a moment. But only a moment.

“There's no need for you to call again, Harold.” And with that, Draco cuts the connection with the Floo and Harold is gone.

“Now we've got rid of him, next up are reports of a large moonbow in Zimbabwe...”

\- - -

The rest of the show goes smoothly, with no other callers causing as much trouble and irritation as Harold bloody Porter. Draco wonders if Oli decided to go easy on him because she felt guilty for putting through such a turd of a caller first thing.

When Oli struts in, smile already half cocked with her hands resting smugly on her hips and says, “That Harold's quite a character, huh?” Draco's sure she feels no guilt at all.

“I hate you,” replies Draco.

“Sure you do, Boss.”

“Don't call me boss.” He looks up at Oli. “Bloody awful choice on that Harold bloke today, Oli.”

“I disagree,” replies Oli. “The tension between you two was gold. Plus,” she adds with a smile, “he was cute, even through the Floo.”

“Pity I only got to experience his more annoying qualities.” Keen to move on, Draco shoves the papers on his desk across to her. “Ratings were down yesterday; I don't know what they bloody well want.”

“The listeners?” Oli picks up the papers but barely glances at them.

“The execs.” He points upwards for emphasis, indicating the suits who sign their pay cheques in the offices several floors above them.

“Well that's where you're going wrong. Who cares what they think? Do they even listen to the show? It's the public—the fans—that you should be thinking about. What do _they_ want?”

“They want the show on the air, don't they?”

A small frown appears between Oli's eyebrows. “Is the show at risk of being _off_ the air?”

Draco brushes off her concern with a wave of a hand. “No, no. The suits just think it needs changing up a bit. What's new? They have ideas and I hate them, but how am I supposed to prove to them we _don't_ need adapting; that the show works as it is?”

Oli doesn't reply, but the the look in her eyes tell Draco she has plenty to say. He knows he should be worried, that he should try to pry her words from her, but he just hasn't got the energy.

\- - -

Outside, the rain has eased off to a fine mizzle that shouldn't make Draco as soaked as yesterday. However, the mood Draco's in means he walks much slower and gets just as wet. By the time he picks up his newspapers and magazines and walks through the door of The Tea Shop he is gasping for a cup of tea.

“Seven refills of the Peppermint Toad tea please, Jenny,” says Draco without preamble.

Jenny doesn't bat an eyelid. “One of those days, is it?”

“You heard the show?”

“Yes?”

“That first caller made it one of those days.”

As Jenny places a full cup of tea down on the counter her eyes wander briefly to the ceiling. “Was he really that bad?”

“He was...” Draco lets out a sigh, and with it, some of his frustration. “...the most annoying caller I've had in a long time.”

Jenny smiles. “How about something sweet to make up for it?” She indicates the cakes on display inside the glass counter with a sweep of her arm.

“Merlin, yes. Fuck it all and give me a huge slice of that victoria sponge.”

“Less of that, young man. Fill your mouth with cake, not foul language,” Jenny chides.

Chastised, Draco quickly pays before taking his drink and his cake over to his table. He lets himself relax for the first time all day as he sips his tea, flicks idly through pages and devours the cake.

When there is nothing but crumbs on his plate and his cup of Peppermint Toad tea is empty, leaving a hopping feeling in his stomach, Draco pulls out his parchment pad and quill and gets down to business.

One hour and two more cups of tea later, Draco still can't settle. He's made minimal notes, has distracted himself with non-weather related articles, and has a full page of doodles. Now he sits staring a blank sheet of parchment, unable to concentrate.

“Bye,” calls Jenny.

Draco looks up to see her at the door of the shop, giving him a wave. He waves back. “See you tomorrow.”

“Enjoy the rest of your tea.” And then she's out the door and away.

To avoid looking back down at the blank page in front of him, Draco taps his quill on his pad and turns his head to looks around the room. It looks as it always does—mismatching chairs and tables scattered around the room, art work on the walls in mismatching frames—nothing in this tea shop belongs, which is why Draco has always felt so comfortable here.

Another mismatching thing is Potter. Now in his place behind the counter, having taken over from Jenny, Potter is drying the brightly coloured teacups and stacking them on a shelf in no discernible order. From the corner of his eye, Potter is looking over at Draco, as he usually is. However today, unlike every other day Draco has caught Potter staring at him, Potter doesn't look away. Draco continues to tap his quill on his pad, Potter keeps staking cups, and they both carry on looking at one another.

Eventually Draco drags his eyes back down to his parchment and tries to get on with his work.

Half an hour and one cup of tea later, Draco has half a page of notes and is seriously starting to flag. He considers giving up and using some stories he's been holding back for tomorrow's show, but those stories were held back because they're shit and he still has two cups of tea left, so he knows he should carry on. Instead of carrying on, Draco puts down his quill, rests his head in his hands and closes his eyes.

Draco's unaware of how long he sits like this, enjoying the quiet tea shop sounds of china clinking and water pouring as he rests his eyes. What he is acutely aware of is that when he opens his eyes, Potter is standing at the end of his table holding a plate.

“Cake?” asks Potter.

Draco's narrowed eyes must make his suspicion obvious.

“On the house, if you want it,” Potter hurries to say. “You're one of my most regular customers.”

“I've never been offered free cake before.” Draco is still suspicious; Potter has also never spoken to him before.

“It's a new policy, introduced... just now.”

“Why?”

“Because you seem exhausted. I thought some cake might help.”

Deciding he could use a sugar boost, Draco chooses to accept the cake. He nods and Potter places the cake down at the end of the table.

“Do you need anything else? More tea?”

Draco shakes his head as he pulls the cake closer. “I have three cups of tea left. I need motivation to carry on working—the cake should help.” And, because he's not one to forget his manners, he adds, “Thank you.

“You're welcome.” Potter turns to leave, but pauses and then turns back. “It's a Muggle film.”

The cake pauses halfway to Draco's mouth. “Excuse me?”

“Your tornado story... it's a Muggle film. I guess that's what the guy who called was trying to say—why the story was fictional—it's a Muggle film.”

Suddenly Draco isn't bothered about Harold Porter. “You listen to my show, Potter?”

After six months of coming into this tea shop and getting nothing but furtive glances and the cold shoulder from Potter, he now has free cake and an admission that he's a fan of Common Ground. This morning's show must really have been terrible if even Potter feels sorry for him. He tears off a bite of cake at the idea.

Potter shrugs and gestures back towards the counter. “Jenny has it on in the mornings.”

Ah, so Potter is simply forced to listen to the show. It makes the Draco bite of cake taste bitter and he struggles to swallow.

“But I like them—the stories from Muggle films—the way you tell them, it's... it's funny.”

And now Potter likes it again, and Draco is confused and has nothing to say, so he takes another bite of his free not-quite-so-bitter-after-all cake.

Potter's eyes roam over the papers scattered on the table as Draco continues to eat his cake and drink his tea. When a smile slips onto Potter's face, Draco stops chewing and asks around his mouthful, “What? Why are you smiling?”

“I've just spotted the magazine you get all your best stories from.”

Draco glances at the haphazard pile in front of him. He can see his favourite magazine among them—it's Muggle, but it always has the most ridiculous stories, weather related or not. But how would Potter be able to pick it out? Draco scours the newspapers and magazines from all over the world, Potter wouldn't even know half of what's out there...

One of Draco's eyebrows raises almost of its own accord. “And which, pray tell, is that?”

Potter sounds smug as he answers, “Sight and Sound magazine.”

Draco's mouth drops open. He's so shocked he doesn't have to time to even think about denying it. “How?”

“All your best stories are the plot lines from Muggle films, like I said, and Sight and Sound is a Muggle film review magazine.” He pauses, frowning down at the magazine. “Though that issue—” he points at it “—has Austin Powers on the cover, so it's an old edition, but I guess that's how you end up with older films like Twister. Which actually works really well because it makes the show more unpredictable.”

Potter's rambling, they both know it. He came over here and started a conversation, and now it would seem like he feels like he has to continue it, even if it's in the form of monologue.

While Potter talks, Draco finishes his cake. He finds it rude to look at his watch, so instead he slides his empty plate across the table—not directly at Potter, but in his general direction.

“Yes, well,” says Potter as he catches the movement and picks up the plate. “I should let you get back to it.” He indicates the papers with his free hand and gives Draco a small smile.

Draco, feeling a little guilty for effectively dismissing Potter, smiles back. “Thank you again, for the cake.”

Potter nods, but it's several more seconds before he actually moves away.

Draco works solidly through his last two cups of tea and ends up with five sides of parchment full of stories, notes and comments. He's pleased he managed to make the most of his remaining time after not being in the right frame of mind previously—that free cake really did the job.

He's so happy, in fact, that once he's got his coat on, gathered his papers and is heading for the door, he doesn't even stop to consider. He turns around and calls out a friendly, “Goodbye, Potter.”

Potter is already looking straight at Draco, and instead of turning away hastily, he smiles. “Bye. See you tomorrow?” It's a question—like Potter's unsure if Draco will be back.

Draco smiles back and gives him a small nod. “See you tomorrow.”

\- - -

The next morning, Draco can hardly believe he's awake. He barely slept the night before and there is only one way he's making it through this morning's show.

He steps into The Tea Shop at 7:45 am and waits in line for several minutes, checking his watch. He has to be at the station for eight to make sure everything's ready to go by half past. With how slow the queue is moving, he wonders what Jenny and Potter are playing at up there.

When he steps up to the counter, and to Jenny's bright face on this miserable early morning, Draco doesn't waste time.

“A mug of your strongest tea to go, please.”

Jenny starts it brewing immediately with a wave of her wand.

“With a start like this, it sounds like you're having another one of those days.”

“It looks like I'm not the only one.” Draco looks up and down the counter, but it's only Jenny behind it. “Why isn't Potter here helping you out?”

Jenny lets out a giggle far too young for her age. “You've got be joking. That boy is never in before nine.”

Draco takes his tea as she hands it to him, his mind now whirling with the fact that Potter insinuated he listens to Common Ground only because Jenny does, when it would appear he listens to it at home before he even comes to work.

\- - -

Regardless of Potter's comments the day before, once Draco has downed his extra strong tea and is feeling more alive, he goes over his notes and chooses his stories as he usually would. It's worked for almost a year, why wouldn't it work now, even if not all the stories are true? Draco knows they're not all true, and he assumes most of the listeners know that too—a tornado full of sharks, for Salazar's sake?

And so, when the red light turns on and Draco is on the air, he starts with his best story.

“Good morning. You're listening to Common Ground. As usual, we're stuck with a typically wet British day, but as we all know well enough by now, it's not the worst weather we could have.

“First up, a volcano has erupted from the tar pits of Los Angeles, USA, injuring hundreds and killing dozens. Now, some listeners might say volcanoes aren't strictly weather-related, but when hot lava bursts from the earth and rains down from above, I'm counting it.

“The volcano blew after several utility workers were burned to death in a storm drain when hot gas from the volcano escaped.

“Later, after warnings to subway lines to halt services were ignored, a subway train was derailed, leaving passengers trapped. Many escaped, but one man from the Transit Authority reportedly sacrificed himself to the lava to save the train driver's life. If he did it to be remembered, he's failed because he's been trumped by _a bloody volcano_.

“The lava was eventually contained on the streets of LA using concrete block, before being neutralised by dumping water on it to form a crust.

“That was not the end, however, as the lava continued to flow under the ground through the subway. Hastily, explosions were set to collapse routes in order to lead the lava out to the Pacific Ocean.

“The lava may have been stopped on this occasion, but according to experts, the volcano, named Mount Wiltshire, is still active. Mount Wiltshire. Of course they'd name it after a wonderful county in England, besmirching the beautiful countryside it contains.

“Now, let's see if Oli has any callers.” He waves his wand to open the connection to Oli's transmitter. “Hello, you're on Common Ground, what have you got to say?”

“That the volcano story is just as made up as the one yesterday, but this time I also want to make sure I tell you how much fun it is to listen to.”

Draco frowns. 'This time'? It's not— “Harold?”

A cough. “Yes, it's me.”

Draco's too flabbergasted to be pissed off or think of any snarky replies. He's too busy being baffled by Oli. She's never put the same caller through two shows in a row. They have a few regulars, but they only get air time once every couple of weeks. Draco can't begin to fathom why she's put someone through two days in a row, or—the far more pressing question—why it has to be the most irritating caller they've had for months.

Before Draco has time to consider what the answers might be, he is pulled back to the show when Harold continues talking.

“Really, this kind of story makes me appreciate living in England. We don't have anything exotic and dangerous as volcanoes.”

The fact that Harold isn't saying anything wildly insulting helps Draco formulate a response easily. “That we know of—there wasn't a volcano in LA before this.”

“Yeah, but that's just—”

“Just _what_ , Harold?” There is a note of warning in Draco's voice. If Harold starts off down the fiction road again, well, Draco's hand is already hovering over his wand, ready to cut him off.

“Just—” Harold hesitates, obviously getting the message. “Just a one off. I mean, there'll never be another eruption.”

“The volcano is still active,” Draco reminds him.

“But if it's been there all this time and not gone off till now, likelihood is it won't go off again for a good long time.”

“And if you you lived in LA you'd take that bet? Not move as far away as you fucking could?”

“Well, fudge, like I said, I'm glad I don't live there.”

“But like _I_ said, there could be a volcano in the UK that we just don't know about. Imagine the streets of Diagon Alley running with lava on a busy Saturday afternoon.”

“That's the other wonderful thing about British weather, though—even if that happened, it wouldn't get far without being cooled down and crusted by the crappy rain we've always got.”

Draco glances out of the window, down onto Diagon Alley, to see it pouring down and the streets running with nothing but sheets of water.

“I've got to concede on that point, Harold. Touché.”

Draco cuts of the sound of Harold's laughter and swiftly moves on to his next story, about ball lightning.

\- - -

Draco's waiting in his office, foot tapping impatiently, when Oli finally struts in, brushing soot from her knees.

“Brill show today, Boss.”

“Don't call me boss,” Draco replies automatically before charging on. “What the hell was that today with Harold fucking Porter?”

“It was great, wasn't it? You two played off of each other so well—better than yesterday, even, despite the fact you didn't argue this time. And when he said—”

“You did it on purpose. Why? To annoy me? What do you want, a pay rise? And this was you threatening me? You know I can't authorise a pay rise. I would, if I could, if you'd stop—”

“Calm down, Boss, bloody hell.”

“Don't call me boss.”

“I'm not asking for a pay rise—I mean, I'd like one, but— Have you seen the ratings for yesterday yet?”

Draco hasn't, because he's been too busy stewing over the stunt Oli pulled to bother. His pursed lips and lack of response is answer enough for her.

“Check. I'm betting you'll be pleasantly surprised.”

Grudgingly, Draco pulls the unopened envelope out of his in-box and rips it open. The figures are only slightly above average, but it's far better than the slightly below average of the day before.

“And you think this is because of Harold? That's a wild guess. It could just as easily be more people drinking enough coffee in the morning and remembering to turn on their bloody wireless.”

“I do think it's Harold, and I'd argue it's a fact.”

“You can't know that.” Draco takes a breath and reassures himself that Oli _can't_ know that. “I might not be able to give you a pay rise, but I could fire you.”

“Could, but won't.” Oli turns to leave. “See you tomorrow, Boss.”

“Oli?” Draco suddenly has to ask.

Oli turns back expectantly. “Yeah?”

“Did you know all my best stories are from Muggle films?”

“Yeah, of course. That's the point, right? A bit of dramatic fun and the whole, 'it could be worse' thing. Everyone knows. Why, were you worried listeners weren't getting the joke?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

As Oli leaves, Draco is left wondering if he's the only person who has failed to get his own joke.

\- - -

By the time Draco is sitting in his usual booth in The Tea Shop, cup of Chocolate Frog tea and his pile of newspapers and magazines on the table in front of him, he's hesitant. He would usually pull Sight and Sound straight out off the pile and devour it, but now he knows it's full of Muggle films, and everyone else knew that when he didn't, he's not as keen to read it. Instead he starts with Le Point magazine.

As he goes over any weather-related stories he finds, he imagines his commentary, the listeners' reactions and the type of callers it would likely attract... and none of them are good enough. There are the usual side stories, bit-pieces and feel good stuff, but nothing to start the show with. Nothing, as Oli put it, dramatic enough.

Draco reads through a story on an iceberg waterfall and imagines Harold calling in to comment on it. What he imagines is boring; there is nothing about the story to elicit any interesting response.

Despite how much Harold has irritated Draco, he's proved himself a more interesting caller than most. He's pushed Draco, and Draco has pushed back. For all its annoyances, Draco will admit he finds that kind of interaction more satisfying than attention seekers claiming they've witnessed or experienced patently ridiculous weather.

Without really thinking about it, Draco's hand reaches for the Sight and Sound magazine.

He's halfway through an interesting article about a solar flare causing temperatures on Earth to rise, leading to earthquakes, pyroclastic flows and megatsunamis, when Jenny calls over from the doorway to say goodbye. Draco waves and watches her go before getting back to work.

Draco has decided on the leading story for tomorrow and is just about to start making his notes when a shadow falls across his papers. He looks up to find Potter standing at the end of the table.

“Hello,” says Draco automatically.

“Hi,” replies Potter. “Jenny mentioned you didn't get a cake this morning like you usually do.”

“That's true.” He didn't. It isn't a big deal. He tries not to eat too many sweet things, and with Potter giving him a second cake yesterday, Draco thought it would be sensible if he forwent a cake today. It had nothing to do with the possibility of another cake from Potter today. Still, he has to keep up appearances. “You see, I'd heard a rumour the management introduced a new policy for giving free cake to the regulars. Really, it's the only reason I came back.”

Potter smiles. “I did introduce that policy, didn't I? Well, if it keeps you coming back, I'd better carry on.” Potter's voice is light enough, but something about the way he says it feels significant.

Draco is immediately distracted when Potter whips out an iced bun with chocolate sprinkles on from behind his back. It takes all Draco's effort not to make grabby hands at Potter.

“Anyone would think you like cake,” says Potter as he puts it down on the table.

Draco pounces on it and, around a mouthful, manages, “I like _Jenny's_ cake—this place would be empty without her and her baking.”

“She's been baking for over 40 years, of course her cakes are amazing. Yet you still only have one cake to your seven cups of tea per day.”

“Cakes are delicious, but tea is my life source.” It doesn't slip Draco's notice that Potter knows the exact number of refills Draco orders, despite the fact that he has never served him, but he doesn't know what to make of the fact. “That's not as much of a compliment to your tea-brewing skills as you might like to think. If all I could get was Typhoo, I'd take it.”

“So, you think my teas are better than Typhoo!” Potter sounds far too pleased.

Side-stepping his own backhanded compliment, Draco throws out a question. “How did you even end up blending teas, anyway?”

Potter slides into the booth opposite Draco and shrugs. “You're not the only one whose life source is tea. As much as I love all the usual blends, at some point I just wanted more. And, as much as there is a ton of variety in the Muggle world of tea, there wasn't much at all in the wizarding world. So, I began to experiment with magical sweets. I'm working on one currently with Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, but, as you can imagine, the results are hit and miss.”

Somewhat surprisingly, Draco actually finds himself interested. “So how did experimenting lead to this?” He gestures, encompassing the booth, the room, and the shop.

Another modest shrug from Potter. “I wasn't doing anything else.”

Draco waits, to see if there is anything else forthcoming. When it's clear there isn't, he says, “That's it? You weren't doing anything else, so you casually opened a tea shop?”

Now Potter laughs. “Okay, there may have also been a few talks from Hermione about doing something with my life, and really I just wanted to relax. Opening a tea shop seemed relaxing enough, so we compromised.”

“Being in charge and not coming to work before 9am does sound relaxing.” Draco folds his arms in front of his now-empty plate and looks straight over at Potter.

From the slight widening of Potter's eyes and his sudden fidgeting, he hasn't missed Draco's point.

“Yeah, it means I can, er, relax a bit in the mornings. Take my time getting ready and stuff.”

“Stuff like listening to excellent shows on the wireless?”

Potter doesn't answer and avoids looking at Draco. “So, that Harold guy called again.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco takes that as all the admission he will get. “Yeah, he wasn't quite as annoying this time.”

This drags Potter's eyes back to Draco. “Really?”

“You couldn't tell? I didn't even swear at him.”

“You definitely swore.”

“But not _at him_. There's a huge difference between having a fight and having a debate. Today swung much closer to the latter.”

“So he didn't annoy you?”

Draco gives a small shrug. “Not as much as before. Maybe by tomorrow I'll even like him.”

“You think he'll call back again?”

“If Oli has her way, I'm sure he will.”

“And what if—”

But Draco doesn't get to find out what if, because the bell above the door tinkles as a customer enters. With a quick, “Sorry,” Potter slips out of the booth to serve them, taking Draco's now-empty plate with him.

The shop, and therefore Potter, remains busy for the next hour as Draco finishes his refills, and they don't get a chance to talk again. Draco gives Potter a small wave on his way out of the door, and as Potter waves back Draco realises he's disappointed they didn't get to finish their discussion.

\- - -

It is still raining when Friday morning dawns. Despite the shitty weather and the early hour, Draco finds himself smiling. It's not that he's usually unsmiling and miserable, but more that he's looking forward to his day more than usual. When he thinks of what's changed in his life, he can only think of Harold and Potter, but shakes his head at the idea that two annoying men could be making him smile. One may or may not have helped increase the ratings for the show, and the other may or may not continue giving him free cake and conversation, but they are hardly reasons to smiling at 6am on a Friday morning.

By the time he gets to work, Draco is whistling and starting to annoy even himself. When the red light comes on, he honestly tries to contain himself, but he's far to excited about his perfect Friday morning story.

“Happy Friday and good morning. This is Common Ground, where I talk you through some of the most unusual weather in the world and cheer up you while it pisses it down outside.

“To start us off, on a tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, a young scientist has made it rain meatballs. He invented a machine that transforms water into food, but somehow caused it to launch into the sky. He wallowed in failure until not long after it started raining cheeseburgers.

“The island's residents, due to their isolation, live mostly on seafood, and were at first delighted by this non-aqueous rain and increased variety of food. They even worked out a way to send requests to the machine, still in the sky above them, to order whatever foods they wanted.

“During this time, the inventor of the machine met a weather intern and fell in love. This featured heavily in the original article, though I don't see how it's relevant, myself.

“Over time, however, both the food and the island's inhabitants begin to grow larger, and a spaghetti and meatballs tornado threatened the town. The scientist who created the machine then became determined to stop it.

“Though thwarted by the island's mayor on several attempts, the inventor finally managed to destroy his machine, which had evolved into a giant meatball. So, the town was saved, but I guess they had to go back to eating seafood. You win some, you lose some.

“Let's take some calls.” With a wave of his wand, Draco opens the line. “Hello, you're on the air.”

“So, it never actually rained meatballs.”

“Harold.” Draco recognises the voice immediately. “We have to stop meeting like this.” In his mind, he's already working on his speech to Oli—regulars have their place, and it's not on every bloody show.

“When I've not got comments to make, I won't bother calling. For now, though, really, when did it rain meatballs?”

“I kept the report short, if I'd listed every foodstuff that fell from the sky, the show would have run on a little.”

“Fine, but can you imagine eating rain food? Would cheeseburgers even stay together for the duration of the fall? And did the spaghetti and meatball tornado have a tomato sauce with it, because that would have been messy.”

“You're full of questions this morning Harold. _I_ can't imagine eating rain food, because I have a plentiful supply of cakes from a local shop. I'm a glorified weatherman, not a physicist, so can't help you with the cheeseburger conundrum. I'd like to imagine the spaghetti and meatballs did come with a tomato sauce, because it'd be a little plain without.”

“If the people loved all the food so much, why didn't they just fudging eat away all the dangerous weather?”

“I love an iced bun, Harold, but if a giant one started chasing me, I would run away. But despite that, all this talk of food, including your penchant for fudge, has made me rather hungry.”

“I'm sure a lot of people will now be having meatballs for tea.”

“A desire to eat balls is a reaction I often elicit in people.”

Harold splutters down the Floo at that, and this time it's Draco who's laughing as he cuts off the call. He moves onto a story about a tsunami of ice with his smile firmly in place.

\- - -

This time, Draco has already looked at the ratings for yesterday's episode when Oli glides into the room. And he doesn't care. They're well above average and, by this point, he's sure today's ratings will be, too, but that's not the point.

Oli sits her soot-covered self in a chair opposite him and Draco's sure she has plenty to say, but he beats her to it.

“I don't care, Oli.” He waves the piece of paper with the ratings on. “Harold Porter is a caller, not my fucking co-host.”

“But he could be your co-host, Boss.”

“Don't call me—”

“Listen, Boss.” Oli leans forward across the desk and Draco rolls his eyes before fixing them back on his assistant. “I've been with you on this show since it got picked up from the shitty midnight slot and they made you take calls. I know this show just as well as you—” hse pauses and fixes Draco with a determined look “—better, even, in some respects.”

Determination be damned. “Oli this is _my_ show. I dreamt it up, I have done all the research, I took the shittiest time slot they'd give me after months of meetings and arse kissing and 'auditions', I write the content and make the show stupid and fun and—”

“Boss, I know.” Oli says it so patiently that Draco's sure it's not the first time she's said it. “This show is your baby, and you're very protective of it. But I have something you don't, and that's distance. I'm invested in this show, but not in the same way you are. And I see more of how people respond to it—hell I take about 50 calls in the space of half an hour, you only have to speak to two or three of them.”

With pursed lips Draco has to concede that point. He'd never stopped to consider the fact that he only speaks to a small fraction of the people that call, while Oli has to deal with them all.

“What are you driving at, Oli?”

“That to your listeners it's not your show, it's _their_ show. They adore you, smart mouth and all—smart mouth _especially_ , actually. I know, because I talk to dozens of them every day. I put through the people the listeners want to hear you talk to, want to hear you call out, swear at and banter with. It doesn't matter if they're talking shit or the god's honest truth. What people listen for is your cocky wisecracks and your quick come-backs. Harold gets out of you what the listeners want.”

“You're serious. About the co-hosting thing—about Harold Porter?”

“I just think you should consider it. Talk to Harold about it.”

“Even if I did consider it, how could I talk to Harold about it? Do you we have his Floo contact?”

“You'll figure it out, Boss.”

And with that Oli is out the door and off to start her weekend. Draco watches her go, baffled and with the gnawing feeling he's missing something.

\- - -

Though the rain continues to fall, there is also a sliver of sun breaking though the clouds as Draco collects his papers and makes his way through the streets to The Tea Shop. He even stops for a few minutes and looks for a rainbow.

In the doorway of the shop, he shakes off his hair, not caring about the state of it, before stepping inside. Once his coat is hung and his papers deposited on his table, he makes his way to the counter, already eyeing up the cakes.

“You're having one this morning, then?” asks Jenny.

“All the talk of cheeseburgers and meatballs left me too hungry to resist. What do you recommend?”

“The orange sponge cake is especially light and fluffy today.”

“Sold. And I'll take seven refills of the...” Draco quickly peruses the list of teas. “...Fizzing Whizbees tea, please and thank you.”

“Coming right up.” Jenny places a piece of orange cake on the counter before sorting out the tea. “That Harold character seems to be growing on you,” she says while the tea steeps.

“What is it about him, Jenny? How can one person be so irritating, yet also inspire such banter?”

“It's a talent, for sure.” She places the finished tea next to the cake. “But it's the pair of you, not just him. You're good for each other.”

“You make it sound like something romantic.”

“And why shouldn't it be?”

Draco laughs. “He annoys the hell out of me.”

“The best ones do, dear.”

Shaking his head, Draco carries his tea and cake to the table. He eats, drinks and reads, but most of all, he thinks.

Harold is not a potential romantic interest for Draco. He can't be; he doesn't even know the man. But he can't deny there is something about Harold, something that drives Draco and makes him feel... better, more alive. Despite the fact they have vexed each other on the show, they have quickly become equals. Not everyone is capable of worthy and amusing banter. Draco just needs to find that in someone he also finds attractive and has actually met.

He's still thinking about it several cups of Fizzing Whizzbee tea later, which have caused him to hover a few inches above his seat, when he spots Jenny saying goodbye to Potter. He sees her patting Potter on the shoulder and saying, “It'll be fine, but don't wait any longer.”

Jenny crosses the room and waves goodbye to Draco from the door. She also, uncharacteristically, throws him a wink. Instinctively, Draco turns around to look for Potter to ask him what's got into Jenny. He finds Potter standing behind the counter where Jenny left him, a hand over his eyes and a light blush on his cheeks.

Frowning, Draco decides to stay well out of whatever just happened, and gets back to work.

Work is slow going, however, when thoughts of Harold or a Harold-like person are now interspersed with thoughts about Potter and what Jenny had said or done to make him look so embarrassed. Draco keeps glancing over at Potter, watching him serve customers, pour tea and fondle cakes. He finds himself considering the last couple of days' chats with Potter and can't help but notice the way his body arches as he reaches to pull down a bag of tea leaves from a high shelf.

Draco thinks about the smiles he's had from Potter recently, the free cakes and general interest. He thinks back to the months Potter has spent watching him and it all seems to make more sense now. The realisation stirs something in Draco that he's not sure he's ready to acknowledge.

When Potter moves out from behind the counter, plate in hand, his smile says it all. They hold eye contact as Potter walks across to Draco. They are looking so intently at one another that Potter doesn't look down at the table as he pushes the plate on to it. Neither of them see it push Draco's tea cup to the edge of the table, but the crash as it hits the floor finally pulls their attention away from each other.

“ _Fudge!_ ” curses Potter as he quickly pulls out his wand to clean up the broken ceramic.

All the thoughts Draco has been having seem to pause and instantly crystallise at the sound of that one word from Potter's mouth.

“Harold Porter.” Draco says it quietly, but in the sudden silence following the crash, Potter hears him.

Potter slips into the seat opposite Draco. “I was just about to tell you, I swear.”

“By breaking a plate and shouting 'fudge'?”

“That wasn't my plan, no.”

“What was your plan?”

Potter shrugs. “Just... to tell you. Today.”

“I should have known. I'm so stupid.” Draco shakes his head, as much annoyed with himself for not seeing it as he is with Potter for doing it. “Harold _fucking_ Porter. I've even said it out loud. How did I not hear your name? The way you bloody got under my skin so _easily_. And Oli—she knew, didn't she? She had to have, she saw your face in the Floo.”

“Yes, she knew.”

Draco puts his hands flat on the table, trying to keep calm. “Was it her idea for you to use a fake name?”

“No,” Potter answers quickly. “I got the impression she thought my name would be good for the show, but... I didn't think you'd appreciate it.”

“Appreciate Harry Potter on my show, or appreciate having to talk to Harry Potter?”

“Either?”

Draco shakes his head. “I haven't minded talking to you these past couple of days, Potter. You or Harold, in the end.”

Potter lays his hands on the table across from Draco's. “You're not pissed off I lied to you?”

“I am incredibly pissed off.”

“Oh.” Potter's hands pause and shrink away into fists.

“But that's what you do, isn't? Even when I didn't know it was you, you riled me up and got a reaction from me so quickly. You push buttons I didn't even know I had. How do you do that?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... push buttons. I only meant to... to get to know you.”

“I come into your tea shop every bloody day. I know you're capable of walking up to me and talking, because you did that not two days ago.”

“Only after I'd Floo called Common Ground and pissed you off. I've spent months watching you, never knowing what to say that wasn't, 'Terrible weather we're having', and I couldn't say that to you, you'd think I was taking the piss.”

Draco almost smiles at this. “I really would.”

“So, I figured I'd Floo and talk to you on the show—where I'd _have_ to talk about weather. But I still managed to piss you off. Then, in the shop that afternoon...” Potter spreads his fingers wide, adding to the earnestness of his words as he says, “I wanted to apologise.”

“Is that why you gave me free cake?”

The blush is back on Potter's cheeks. “I couldn't say sorry properly without telling you I was Harold, and at that point, I don't think it would have gone down too fudging well.”

“Why the hell do you say fudge, anyway?”

“Habit,” explains Potter. “There are so many kids around the Burrow these days, so I have to be careful. Fudge just... stuck.”

They are quiet for a few moments, and Draco processes everything Potter has said. Despite his aggravation, Draco finds himself able to accept the fact that Potter is Harold. He even accepts Potter's explanation. He knows he wouldn't have without the free cake and conversation, though.

“You explained yourself better, too.” Draco breaks the silence.

“What?”

“The Muggle film, thing. Harold— _you_ —confused and annoyed the hell out of me on the show, but in the shop after, you just came straight out and said what you meant.”

“I'd had to time to think it over. I realised I hadn't done a particularly stellar job of saying what I meant.”

“I hadn't known, you know.”

“Known what?”

“That they were Muggle films—that I was reading a Muggle film magazine.”

“It was funny, regardless.” Potter smiles. “You're funny.”

Potter looks at Draco with such fondness, that Draco feels his new desire burn, warring with his anger. He decides, for now, to let desire win. Draco throws a small smile over at Potter, moving his hands forward a few inches, to touch the tips to Potter's.

“There's still one thing I don't know.” 

“What's that?” Potter's eyes are focused on their hands.

“What _is_ a 'film'?”

The laughter that fills the space between them is low and warm. Potter places his hands on top of Draco's, before looking up into Draco's eyes.

“Come on a date with me tonight, and I'll show you.”


End file.
